Sacrifices of Joy (4 page)

That man saw my travel itinerary? I recalled the snapshot he'd seemed to have taken with his phone when he'd stood by the window. My bags and I had been in the corner of his camera screen and I knew that it was easy to zoom in on digital images. How else would he have seen the tiny print of my travel itinerary in my bag?

It was a scary thought. My face on his phone. My card in his pocket. The chill that his eyes carried. Had he left the message before or after the blast, I wondered. And what would it mean either way?

My imagination was getting the best of me.

Delete? Save? My thumb hung over the two options on my phone as I debated what to do with his message. I wanted no part of this man. Didn't want him in my office. Didn't even want him in my voice mailbox. Did I have to call him back? Was I obligated to answer if he called again?

A quick Internet search on my smart phone revealed the number had roots in a large swath of Ohio.

I need to write this down,
I decided, feeling a sudden compulsion to note any- and everything that this man said or did. I grabbed a pen from a side pocket of my purse and turned over the brochure that Skyye had left on the table so I could write on it.

I prepared to write, “740= southeastern and central Ohio,” but my pen froze midsentence.

The back of the La Bohemia Café brochure featured an event calendar. On the evening of April 16, five days from now, the Monthly Lecture Series of La Bohemia Café had a special guest coming to talk about “The Political Meaning of Identity, War, and Revolution.” It wasn't the name of the seminar that stopped me in my tracks. It was the presenter.

The speaker's name was Kisu Felokwakhe.

For years, I could not recall his last name, but I had no doubts, no questions, no confusion when I saw it on the event list.

RiChard and Kisu used to chuckle at my vain attempts to pronounce it, and let me settle with calling him Kisu “O” as that was the only syllable I could ever remember. They had been friends long before I met RiChard, having been roommates in a study abroad program they both attended in England as undergrads.

Kisu had been from the KwaZulu-Natal region of South Africa, and when he and RiChard returned to his homeland to preach a message of social justice and revolution in the waning days of apartheid, Kisu was attacked and killed.

At least that's what RiChard had said when he returned to Kisu's village with blood on his hands.

Blood, he'd said, that came from him avenging Kisu's death.

Blood that forever tainted my innocent view of RiChard as I had given up my full college ride and my common sense to marry him and follow him around the world for his so-called mission.

Yes, I was bitter, but didn't I have the right to be, considering all the lies it turned out he was living?

I was there the day RiChard returned to Kisu's village and talked of killing men in retaliation for his best friend's murder. I watched in silence as Kisu's father gave RiChard the lion's head ring that would eventually become the symbol of RiChard's double life and his lies to me, to Roman; yes, even to Mbali, Kisu's “widowed fiancée,” if that was such a phrase, whom RiChard would eventually marry without telling each of us the truth about each other.

I remembered now that Kisu did not have a last name in the way the Western world dictated. In his community, names held special meaning, related to the circumstances of a child's birth, or prayers, hopes, wishes, or blessings. “Kisu” had not been a traditional name as such in his culture, but rather was the wish of his mother who had gotten the name from only who knows where. Kisu's father, the village chief, acquiesced to her demands, but, upon the admonition of one of his advisors who was supposedly keen to dreams and visions, uneasily gave Kisu an additional name, the traditional name of Felokwakhe. Kisu simply used Felokwakhe as his surname during his studies as he did not have any other name to use.

“One who dies for his own,” RiChard had reminded the small village of Felokwakhe's meaning when he returned with blood on his hands. “The son, the warrior, the noble intellect has died for the cause of righteousness,” RiChard asserted as the villagers came to terms with their grief over the loss of their prized son. Kisu was a martyr for the cause and the village was moved to action.

Unsettled and uncertain about what was going on, I moved back to the States, unknowingly pregnant with RiChard's first child, Roman.

Years would pass before I would learn that Kisu was not dead.

When Roman was fourteen, I received a package in the mail, supposedly of RiChard's ashes; but instead the lion's head ring was inside. A whirlwind search for answers revealed that Kisu was behind the delivery.

I'd had many questions, but I had never gotten all the answers. As a result, I'd lost chances at love and healing, and, I conceded, the loss of my son's respect along the way.

No more.

Kisu Felokwakhe was going to be at the La Bohemia Café in five days. I was going to be there too.

I did not know what that meant for my work week, my scheduled appointments, my return to Baltimore—
that man from the airport
—but this was one seminar I was not going to miss.

I'd spent years learning lessons about myself, failing lessons on love, reliving lessons on moving forward. Here was a final exam on finding answers, and this test I would not fail, come hell or high water.

Something told me I was in for both.

Mom, are you coming?

 

Roman's text buzzed me back to the moment. I'd been in San Diego less than two hours. From the airport, to Roman's car, to this café hosted by the sunny Skyye, I had not covered much physical ground; and yet my life felt like it had moved to a whole other internal location over the past ninety-seven minutes.

I'll be there soon, I texted right back, though I was uncertain whether I would but knew I had to. I looked at the gift bag Skyye had left on the table. She had not given me a price, leaving it up to my discretion.

What kind of naïve, trusting young girl is this?
I balked inside, wondering how Skyye could entrust her favorite creation, crafted from the diligent labor of her own hands, into the good graces of a complete stranger.

“I've been waiting to show it to the right person,” she'd said. What made her think I was the one? I realized then that her trust wasn't so much in me, but in her intuition. As I took out my wallet, and started counting bills, I could not help but ponder how much we all operate on gut feelings and instinct.

I quickly shook away the nagging notion, reminding myself that as a responsible adult and trained mental health professional, logical thought outweighed irrational emotions.
Right?
I guess what it came down to was figuring out what guided your gut feelings, and knowing where your intuition had its roots.

I took out two twenties and laid them on the table, but as I picked up the gift bag and thought about the extra care, trust, and diligence that went into both the purse and the packaging, I added two more twenties, then one more.

One hundred dollars.

Who knew getting a bag of joy would cost me so much?

I shook my head as I stuffed the brochure and business card into my purse and headed to the front door.

“Roman?” I raised an eyebrow at the sight of my son sitting in his car, which was parked right outside the café. The windows were down and I spoke through them until I plopped down into the car myself. “What are you doing here? Have you been waiting long? What time is it? Is the party over?” I checked my watch as he started the engine.

“I saw you go in there and figured I'd just wait for you out here.” He pulled off and then turned onto a major boulevard, heading in the direction of his college. A deep heaviness clouded his face. My guilt, which I had successfully assuaged earlier, returned full force.

“I . . . I'm sorry, Roman. I did get your sister a present. Oh, and the mola blanket, I brought it like you asked. It's in the duffel bag you put in the trunk. Were you planning on giving that blanket to her?”

“No worries, Ma.”

I got the sense that he was avoiding eye contact with me.

“Roman, we can go back. I have her present and we have the blanket. Turn around. Let's go back. I'm sorry.” Why hadn't I been a big girl in the first place? What was wrong with me? I did not really want to see them, but I also did not want to see my son like this, either.

“No worries, Ma,” he said again. I didn't miss that his voice was slightly louder.

“Roman, is the party over? You didn't have to leave early because of me. Did you tell them I was out getting a present?”

“No.”

“Well, what did you say?”

“Nothing. It wasn't necessary.”

“I don't understand.” I shook my head, trying to make sense of his words.

“Ma, Abigail didn't want us there, you or me.”

“Huh? I'm confused. You said—”

“I said that it would be good for us to all come together, so that we could all move forward.”

“Roman—”

“Ms. Mbali told me about the party and she was glad when I came in just now. But Abigail wasn't. They were about to start arguing, and I didn't want that, so I left and waited for you.”

“And your brother Croix?”

“Croix hasn't been my roommate since last semester. It just . . . Things haven't worked out. Nothing has been going right.”

“Roman, I had no idea all of this was going on. Why didn't you tell me?”

“I tried, Ma.” He looked me straight in the eyes as he waited for a light to turn green. When it did, he looked away and kept driving. “Every time I tried to bring it up, you said you didn't want to talk about Dad's lies, so I honored your wishes. I didn't tell you about the party because I knew you would not have come. I guess, in the end, you probably shouldn't have. I'm sorry for messing up your weekend.”

Look what RiChard has done to us. All of us.
The rage in me turned up another notch as I studied the obvious slump in Roman's posture, the defeat in his eyes, the pain inside of him that I could not fix. All my son ever wanted was a complete family, and nobody had ever been able to give him that.

Not even me.

And it was all because of one man who hadn't shown his face to either one of us in nearly two decades.

How could one person's absence cause that much hurt and pain?

The rage was a slow, steady boil.

“Roman, I wish you had talked to somebody. Anybody. You shouldn't be carrying all this around by yourself.”

“I talked to Leon a couple of times.”

The rage turned to ice. I froze. Every thought, feeling, motion inside of me came to a standstill. I think even my heart paused for a moment, struggling to remember how to beat.

“You . . . Leon . . . uh . . .”

“It was some time ago. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Something like that. He's moved on, Ma. And you need to too.”

He turned into a student parking lot near his dorm. I had reservations at a hotel nearby. From the silence that ensued, it appeared that neither one of us wanted to keep talking.

“Roman, is there anything else you had planned for us today or tomorrow?” I asked as he searched the lot for an open space.

He shook his head no.

“Did you want to go out to eat?”

He shook his head again. “Honestly, I have a project due Monday. I should be working on it as we speak.”

“Take me back to the airport,” I blurted. “It's been a crazy day, and I think I need to go back home.”

He didn't object and I didn't reconsider. What else did San Diego hold for me at the moment? I would be back in a few days anyway, I reasoned, though I didn't tell Roman that.

It had been a long, crazy, twisted, terror-filled day. Telling him that I'd found Kisu seemed like it would only add to the uncertainty, add to the pain.

We were both silent as he drove me back to San Diego International Airport.

“Thanks for coming, Ma.” He kissed my cheek just before I got out of his car. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Roman, and I'm proud of the man you have grown to be.”

We smiled at each other and then we both turned to our separate paths.

As I entered the airport, I checked my phone for available flights home. BWI Thurgood Marshall Airport was closed, all flights cancelled due to the ongoing investigation. I'd have to fly into National or Dulles in DC.

Laz was in DC, I recalled. Maybe he could pick me up from the airport since my car was in the express lot at BWI.

It was time to move on.

Five Fascinating Facts About Me

I looked at the e-mail header and wondered what to do. The sender of the e-mail was named Everybody Anybody and the e-mail address started with 123ABC.

Was this spam that had somehow made it into my inbox? A virus that was waiting to be unleashed? I stared at the new message notification blinking on my phone and wondered if I should just send it directly to my trash folder.

I was on a layover in St. Louis, waiting for my next flight, which would take me to DC. I'd turn on my phone to send Laz a text with my flight information so he could pick me up, when I'd noticed the new e-mail. It was late, I was tired, and now I had to make sense of this foolishness on my phone.

It had to be spam, I reasoned, knowing that the only reason I was giving the e-mail a second thought was because of the voice mail message on my phone from earlier.

That man—I didn't even know his name—had me spooked and I couldn't stand it.

“Again, ladies and gentlemen, babies and children, we apologize for the lengthy delay, but we will finally begin boarding in just a few moments. Please have your boarding passes ready.” A male flight attendant who was way too energetic for three in the morning boomed over a loudspeaker.

“Oh, what the heck.” I decided to go ahead and open it. I didn't want to spend the entire flight obsessing over what was probably random junk mail.
Or it could be a virus.
I swallowed as the e-mail uploaded. I waited for a moment to see if my phone screen would suddenly go haywire. When it didn't, I read through the entire numbered list that comprised the message.

Random nonsense. I read through the e-mail one last time before shutting off my phone for good. I didn't get it, didn't know who sent it and, at the moment, I was too tired to care. Maybe after I had some solid sleep, maybe after I'd had a chance to process the disasters of the past twenty-four hours, maybe after I'd studied the e-mail a few more times, I would know exactly what I was supposed to do with it. That was the only reason I didn't delete it. Sometimes with a clear mind comes clear direction.

Clarity is all I wanted.

 

 

I touched down in DC just before 6:30 a.m. Sunday morning. The time zone differences, lack of comfortable sleep, and landing in a city that still was not home had me disoriented with a migraine brewing. I'd sent Laz a text hours earlier asking him to pick me up, but I hadn't even bothered to see if he'd responded.

A terrorist attack had happened in our corner of the world, and his job as an investigative reporter for a major network in Baltimore would mean that he was all over the scene. This was the type of news story Laz lived for on his way to getting his dream job as a correspondent on a national network.

He was close.

Many across the nation already recognized him for his unbridled commentary and willingness to take both physical and verbal risks. A live on-air rant about Hurricane Katrina at the beginning of his career secured his image.

I was on my own, I was sure of it.

I picked up a map for the local Metro, which had a stop at the airport, to see how to get to Union Station. Though I lived just an hour away from DC, I was not all that familiar with the nation's capital; but I knew that the MARC train, a commuter rail that stopped at Union Station, traveled from there to my hometown, with a stop, I thought, at BWI where my car was parked.

“I can't even think straight to figure this out.” I sighed to myself, trying to make sense out of the colors and routes and times and destinations on the map. “I'm stranded.”

I picked up my things and headed toward the exit. An app on my phone calculated a near one-hundred dollar cab fare from Reagan National Airport to BWI, assuming I could even get to the lot where my car was. The investigation was still active. “And I just gave that girl one hundred dollars for a crocheted purse.” I sighed and shook my head, too exhausted to figure out what else to do. I could take a cab, if all else failed, but I really didn't want to keep throwing around money like that.

I considered contacting my mother, my father, or even my sister Yvette, but I knew that all three of them would be in varying stages of getting ready for Sunday morning worship. Aside from interrupting their routines, I did not feel like hearing my mother's nags about my decreasing church attendance.

Actually, I'd stopped going all together, but managed to catch enough of Pastor McKinney's Web casts to join along in the spiritual discussions over my mom's Sunday dinners.

Hard to believe that Yvette had more to say about Jesus than I did these days.

“There she is.”

The voice outside the terminal exit caught me off-guard. I turned to the left and saw him. Head tilted to one side, his signature fedora slanted the opposite direction, Laz stood leaning against his gleaming white Benz. The passenger door was open.

“Come on, now, Ms. St. James.” He flashed an easy smile. “You know they'll be telling me to move my car in a moment.”

I smiled back at him and resisted the urge to pat my hair back into place. I was certain I looked as exhausted and worn as I felt, and no amount of fooling with my tresses would change that. I was a newly natural girl, and my hair had been styled in an elaborate up-do of flat twists and spirals, all of which had become mashed on the headrests of planes and automobiles.

“You came,” was all I could say as he put my bags in his trunk. We both sat down in the spotless beige smooth leather interior. Today his car smelled like spicy vanilla.

“Of course I came. You needed me to come get you.” His satellite radio was on. Jazz. The classic kind. Count Basie, Billie Holiday, Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald. This was Laz's Sunday morning station of choice. “Why would you think I wouldn't come for you?” His smile stayed easy as he looked at me from the corners of his eyes.

“Breaking news story? Terrorist attack?” I bit my tongue to keep from sharing my irrational fear that I'd talked to the perpetrator. A suspect was already in custody, I reminded myself.

“Exactly.” Laz nodded as he weaved his way through the traffic leaving the airport. “There was a terrorist attack and you were much too close to it. When I got your text, I dropped everything to make sure that I was here to get you. I'm sure you're frazzled.”

“Frazzled doesn't even begin to describe how I feel right now.” I bit my lip, looked up at the flawless blue sky through the partially open sunroof. Hard to believe such horrors could happen under perfect springtime skies. “What's the catch?” I demanded, turning my attention back to him.

“Say what?”

“The catch? You said you dropped everything to come get me. That goes against everything I know about you, Laz. There's a catch somewhere in this deal.”

“Okay, you got me.” He let out a slow chuckle. “There's always a catch; but don't worry. You'll like this catch.”

I rolled my eyes. Didn't this man know I was too tired to be playing games? My exhaustion and nerves were reaching a point of delirium.

“Calm down, Sienna. Really, that's the catch. I'm going to need for you to relax and let me pamper you. You've been through a lot over the past day, and the fact that you came back from your trip earlier than expected tells me that there's more you're not telling me. So my catch is simple. I booked a suite for you at the Ritz-Carlton where you'll be able to rest while I go back to work. At noon you have an appointment at the spa for an organic facial and an eighty-minute Swedish massage. And then at six, no matter what happens in the news, regardless of what story I'm working on, we have reservations for dinner at a little restaurant I recently discovered in Georgetown.”

“Laz, I—”

“Nope,” Laz interrupted before I could get out any other words. “You asked for the catch and that's it. You cannot protest or tell me any other plans. You are not allowed to think about the explosion, your work week, your car back in Baltimore, your crazy clients, or whatever happened just now back in California. Your catch is that you have to do as I say and let me make this day special for you.”

“I don't like the word ‘crazy.' My clients—”

“Sienna, I'm not playing with you, girl.” He turned up the music and drowned out whatever else I was going to say with a lively, off-beat trumpet and percussion duet. Within minutes, we were in front of the luxury hotel.

“Take care of her.” He nodded at a doorman who opened my door and reached for my bags in the trunk, which Laz had popped open. “Here, Sienna.” He passed me a small white envelope. “The room key is inside. The suite number is written on the back. Go get some sleep. Don't miss your day spa appointment, and meet me right here at five-thirty.” He winked at me and I turned to get out.

“Wait,” he commanded. I turned to face him again and he leaned in toward me. He paused and then leaned even closer and planted a soft kiss on my cheek. His sharply trimmed goatee scratched against my face and his breath was warm in my ear. “I'm glad you're okay, Ms. St. James.”

I smiled but my emotions were a mixed bag. Weariness, guilt, fear, anguish, and confusion stunted any other feeling that may have tried to break through.

He pulled off the moment I was out of the car. I exhaled and entered the lobby.